


The Heart of Agony

by AbyssWalk3r



Category: Final Fantasy XIV, Lock's Quest
Genre: Adding more backstory to the Garleans, Because I've been replaying Lock's Quest, Garlean WoL, I wrote this instead of working on my other two stories, Multi, Yet Another Freaking AU, because why not, but hey, let's see where this freaking goes, more terrible ideas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-12
Updated: 2018-10-02
Packaged: 2019-06-26 03:53:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 14,998
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15655236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AbyssWalk3r/pseuds/AbyssWalk3r
Summary: The Warrior of Light, lauded across all of Eorzea, is revealed to be a pure-blooded Garlean with ties to the Imperial Royal Family. Fear can make even the stoutest hearts do terrible things, and so it is that fear drove the Alliance and Ishgard to turn against their vaunted champion. Driven to near death by his treacherous allies, the Warrior of Light makes his final stand in the ruins of Boulder Downs, among the remains of Dalamud's fury and ancient Allag.Unknown to the world, another power has been slumbering beneath Coerthas: a power long forgotten to all, bearing ties to the earliest days of mankind, predating even Allag.As the Warrior of Light vanishes from Hydaelyn, a spark is lit within the primordial, forgotten depths, and a long-abandoned cause rises to once again leave its mark upon the world.





	1. Fall From Light

**Author's Note:**

> Well, this is what happens when I replay an old favorite game of mine and see an opportunity to combine it with a present favorite game. I'll try to describe the Lock's Quest parts as accurately as I can, given that the game isn't exactly well-known despite how much I absolutely love it.   
> (Note: to anyone who is reading my Castor Entialpoh stories, this WoL is not Castor! Different person with totally different origins! Not in the same world as Castor Entialpoh, either!)   
> I am so sorry in advance for this potential trainwreck of a story.

It was cold, so cold, icy knives slicing through flesh even as frozen ground and slushy snow were trampled underfoot. His chest ached with needles of pain, likely from the arrows that had grazed his flesh, making the heavy breaths forced into his lungs burn with agonizing heat even as snowflakes fell from churning grey skies. 

Armored plates weighed down his heavy limbs as if grafted into his flesh, pale hair plastered to his head when it wasn’t matted down from dried blood and melted snow. 

Coerthas was bitter and barren, as always, the yawning maw of Saint Daniffen Pass the only escape from the brutal winds slicing into already raw flesh.

He ran until his exhausted legs could carry him no farther, forcing him to lean against the nearest cold, craggy wall the moment he entered the gaping pass. Grey stone comprised everything, stretching down through the mountains like the throat of a petrified ancient being, jagged with stalagmites and echoing with dripping water. 

The world was blurry, swimming before his eyes as he gulped down lungfuls of frigid air, sending icicles of pain through his ravaged body. Hot blood dripped down across his eyes, turning his sight red as he lifted a slowing freezing hand to wipe it away before realizing he was wiping at the wrong organs. 

“Damn them... close-minded fools!” the words were as glass to his chest, drawing a muffled curse as he, the now-disgraced Warrior of Light, lifted his icing hand to his third eye and wiped it clean, the partial sight offered by the unique heritage of pure-blooded Garleans clearing up immediately. 

Voices filtered into his hearing: shouting followed by the clanking of chain mail and the squawking of chocobos. 

“He’s in here! The Garlean traitor is in here!” 

Damn it! Just because he was a pure-blooded Garlean didn’t mean he was a spy for the Empire! After all the good he’d done for the sake of this pathetic nation! 

Granted, his family held distant blood relations to the Royal Family, but still! That was distant! It wasn’t like he was a bloody prince like Zenos! 

Eorzean Alliance and Ishgardian fools, damn the lot of them! What was the point of having this Echo if the people he’d vowed to aid were now trying to kill him just because they’d finally seen past his cover story? 

He pushed his exhausted body to move once again, biting down a groan as he moved down this primordial throat of the mountain, his boots scraping against stone with each exhausted step he took. Leather and metal chafed his sweat and water-soaked undershirt and trousers, the Garlean-made weave weeping his own blood as his flesh was rubbed raw and opened old wounds. 

He’d lost his sword and small buckler somewhere during the first part of the chase, forcing him to stick to the small pistol he’d always carried just in case. Just in case... yeah, and that just in case was now clacking down the pass after him as he burst out into the frigid wilderness. 

Boulder Downs, it was called, and rightfully so: Dalamud’s fall had opened up a crater in the base of the mountains large enough to land several Assault Craft within, the unnatural blood-red stone pulsating with power. Allagan ruins rose from the multi-layered crater, dormant and empty of all power as they lorded over the frost-dusted forests splaying out between the Observatorium and the lone stone watchtower assigned to Boulder Downs. Monument Tower or something, he thought it was called.

“This way!”

“I see him!”

An arrow hissed past his head, embedding itself into the trunk of a nearby tree with a loud, ominous hum. Yeah, the bastards saw him, alright. 

“I’m not going to die here, at the hands of these fools!” he growled through gritted teeth, dragging himself through the slush and mud towards Boulder Downs even as his agonized body screamed in heated protest. “Not after Bahamut and all the others!”

To hells with this! The Empire could take them for all he cared! If Eorzea would just throw aside everything he’d done just because of his heritage, then they deserved to be labeled as ignorant savages deserving of subjugation! 

His slowly numbing fingers closed around the grip of his pistol as he stumbled towards the opening of the craters, whispering silent prayers to Hydaelyn that the beasts that kept the Ishgardian patrols at bay would leap at the prospect of another fight as his pursuers closed in. Preferably without tearing into the weakened Warrior of Light while they were at it. 

He could hear the rising crescendo of clanking metal and the heavy footfalls of chocobos, the rustling of feathers and leather harnesses as they tromped over snow. A startled yelp and the impact of stone and metal heralded the fall of one of the Ishgardian fools, followed by the cries of his alarmed comrades. 

He pushed through the swimming world and agonizing pain, praying that he’d be able to ignite some flames to warm up his body before he began lose limbs to frostbite. The unnatural curves in the layers of the crater opened up before him, and he all but dove into the folds of Dalamud’s wrath. 

Another arrow bounced off the stone where he’d just been standing, the noise catching the attention of giants that had been lumbering about a fresh kill: a wounded biast whose body had been savagely ripped open by the great creatures. 

“Knights!” One of the monsters bellowed as Ishgardians came into sight, raising a massive club studded with spikes as its smushed features twisted into a terrifying rendition of a smile- tombstone teeth and all. “Kill! Eat!” 

He limped away, praying softly as his pursuers hesitated before shouting orders and assuming defensive positions to soak up the now-charging giants, one lobbing an arrow in his direction for good measure. Further and further down the layers of blood-red stone and ruins he wound, fighting the warm darkness that threatened to claim him every step of the way even as shards of glass raked across his nerves with every move he made. 

If he was going to fire a shot in this forsaken wasteland, he would need good cover and a means to dig himself out should he find himself buried. He turned a corner and all but skidded to a halt, swearing at the sheer wall of red stone, snow, and Allagan alloys staring back at him. 

“Damn it!” he was about to turn and retreat the way he’d gone when the sounds of battle faded to reveal the pursuit of the knights that had somehow apparently managed to defeat the giants. 

He limped forward, backing himself as far into the crater as he could manage as Ishgardian knights in chain mail emerged around the corner, several bearing wounds under ripped armor. The sigils of three Houses were etched upon their kite shields, revealing that Ishgard had united in its hatred of Garlemald and all who hailed from it. 

“Garlean dog!” One snarled, his chain mail hood smeared with blood as his face twisted into feral rage. “To think that we trusted you!” 

He lifted the pistol and cocked it, numbed finger wrapping around the trigger. 

The knights froze, swords and shields glittering in the faint rays of sunshine that broke through the oppressive layer of grey and flurries of white. “You wouldn’t: you’d bury us all!” 

“I can live, unlike you,” he shot back, even though his aching body told him otherwise. “And I will tell you again: I do not serve the Empire! I am Garlean, yes, but I fled from the Empire because I did not believe in what we were doing! I came to Eorzea to see firsthand what came from our oppression and vowed to change it for the better!” 

“Shut up, you hypocrite!” a youthful knight spat, readying her halberd. “You would have enslaved us all if you had the chance!” 

It was so damn hard to keep his eyes open, to keep his mind keen despite the flurries that the world had been reduced to. 

“Behold: the perfect example of why my people call you savages,” he spat bitterly, fighting to keep his weakening legs from collapsing. “You refuse to see anything beyond your tiny, insignificant spheres and answer every question with blood and hatred and fear. I’ve fought for years to protect you people, but all you seem capable of is making the entire world want to kill you.” 

He could feel his body slowly shutting down, the severity of his wounds coupled with exhaustion slowly inching him closer and closer to death’s door. Was this really how his story would end? 

“To the seven hells with you,” he finally spat, determination icing over within his aching heart. “Die like the savages you are: violently and forgotten to the rest of the world!”

His finger pulled the trigger, shattering the world with an explosive crack. His aim was true: the bullet punched into the lead knight’s forehead and dropped him like a sack of chocobo feed.

“You fool!” Another knight barked in the sharp silence that followed. “All hands, fall back! Fall back!”

The mountains groaned, thousands of tons of ice and snow shifting and filling the air with the cracking of an army. He watched as the knights scrambled away, desperate to escape nature’s wrath as the mountainside crumbled in a sheet of pure white. 

He scowled up at the avalanche of death and destruction now bearing down upon him. “This was a bad idea.” 

Those were the only words to come as half of the mountainside crashed down over him, the ground beneath his feet disappearing and sweeping him into a weightless abyss as darkness filled everything. 

The dreams came for him in the dark: memories of blood and death that had followed him ever since he’d come to this blighted land. He’d fought his own countrymen and killed untold hundreds if not thousands of beasts, brigands, and soldiers. 

He could never escape those visions of death and ruin no matter how deeply he drank himself into a stupor or knocked himself out using conjuror’s potions and magicks. 

But something changed in the dreams: he fell deep below the earth, becoming swaddled in the vast expanses of a mountain’s guts until he came to rest in a sea of crinkling metal. He thought it was magitek, at first, until he looked out across the ruins and saw that it appeared to be comprised solely of suits of armor, gears, and cogs of a make he’d never seen in Garlemald. Bronze, silver, and some odd blue metal poked out from heads lined with horns, hoods, or pointed mage hats, iron skeletons all staring with empty sockets at the endless black surrounding him. 

“Ah, you’re awake at last,” a disembodied voice mused, making him turn to the source. 

A man dressed in a red hood and cape stood-hovered, actually- at his side, a keen, sharply lined face the picture of bored curiosity as bronze-colored eyes took in his ragged appearance. Laugh lines that contrasted with his critical gaze curved his flesh alongside wrinkles that showed a matured life, short curls of brown hair peeking underneath the red hood. He was an older man, certainly, but not elderly by any means.

“Awake?” there was no pain and the world was staying blessedly still, so this had to be a dream, right?

The heavy scent of rusted metal and oil flooded his nostrils, making him stumble a bit before he caught his balance once again. 

“Maybe not fully awake,” the stranger mused, his eyes gleaming with intelligence as he looked down an aquilline nose at the confused Warrior of Light. “No matter: you aren’t going to last long with those injuries, so I’ll have to make this quick before you bleed out on me.” 

The floating man-perhaps a specter or something? - swept his arm over the sea of rubble, sorrow entering his voice. “Gaze upon the ruins of my children, my creations. I sought to create life and failed, waging war on the kingdom that abandoned me in a desperate attempt to satiate my own hubris.” 

“Create life?” the Warrior frowned, briefly wondering why he wasn’t suffering horrible, screaming pain before pushing those thoughts away. “Aether cannot create life for machines, neither can ceruleum.” 

This was a dream, after all, it had to be. Might as well humor whatever madness this was, eh?

The red specter snorted. “Aether, ceruleum... Ah, how I forget how little the people of this world know of their origins.” 

The specter floated away, an invisible chain tugging the Warrior after it in similar fashion. 

“Long, long ago, even before the rise of ancient Allag, there existed a power far more potent than even the purest of aether divulged from the Lifestream,” it intoned as the duo cruised over a sea of rubble and lifeless machines. “It was called Source, for this power was the source of all creative potential, all life that we were aware of. We harnessed this power to build our nation, heralded as the architects of the greatest kingdom to ever exist.” 

A sardonic laugh followed. “Or so the books would tell you, if those don’t turn to dust the moment you touch them. In reality, that kingdom was led by a coward who feared Source’s true potential and betrayed the trust I had for him. He banished me and twisted my heart with unending agony, which I then attempted to unleash upon his pathetic nation.”

The Warrior frowned, unable to make his voice work as his guide continued talking. If this was his dream, why couldn’t he talk? How rude.

“Yet even I was ignorant as to Source’s true power. It was tied to a realm beyond our knowledge, to divine powers beyond our reach, or so we thought,” those sharp bronze eyes swiveled back to him, that ancient gleam filling him with dread. “In reality, Source was the pure, undiluted essence of the being known as Hydaelyn, far more powerful than even the most potent of the Lifestream.” 

Hydaelyn? 

“Your kingdom existed before Allag?” 

The specter chuckled to himself. “It was on our successes that Allag grew, ignorant one. Our creations gave Allag its might.” 

The sea of rubble never ceased and the red-garbed specter slowed to a halt, gesturing at a strange contraption that rose from the mangled remains. “Behold.” 

It looked rusted and beaten, this thing that poked up from the rubble. It looked like some sort of tank with a belt ejecting from a maw into the ground, pipes connecting it into the earth. 

“It looks like a dead ceruleum tank,” the Warrior commented, earning another snort from the specter. 

“Ceruleum is the most diluted, impure castoffs of Source to ever exist, barely capable of powering machines even in a more purified state,” it grunted. “Frankly, I’m not surprised that the descendants of the kingdom managed to find some use for it.” 

“Descendants of the kingdom?” 

“Yes,” the specter nodded. “There were those among the kingdom’s subjects who were blessed with the ability to manipulate Source, to draw supernatural powers from Hydaelyn’s essence in ways that no others could. We built the kingdom, the world that we knew, with Source and all of its potency.”

It lovingly patted the strange tank thing. “We were called archineers, the architects of the world. There were many of us who just limited ourselves to building walls and structures, to being glorified equipment, but I wanted more. I tried to create life with machines, but I was doomed to fail because I did not yet see that life needed a soul to work, and as powerful as Source is, it was incapable of creating souls out of select materials the same way an archineer could build walls.” 

“What was this about descendants?” the Warrior asked, struggling to absorb so much information at once as his head spun. 

The specter pointed at the Warrior’s third eye, causing the world to bend and focus on the nearing appendage. “This third eye marks your people as descendants of the archineers who survived and found newfound purpose even as the Source dried up and the kingdom collapsed around them. You are blessed with power no other in this world can wield.”

“Power? But we Garleans can’t even use magic.” 

Again the specter snorted. “Magic: the minor manipulation of lesser aethers is beneath the power wielded by the archineers. The reason you Garleans cannot wield magic is because your bodies aren’t built to manipulate such base powers.”

It waved a gloved hand at the tank. “You were meant to be archineers: to build with the very foundations of this world. You were meant to wield Source in all of its potential but, alas, there is no more Source to be drawn from Hydaelyn. She has withdrawn her gift, let it dry up, and none are going to revive these Source Wells.” 

“I do not know how a Garlean fell into the ruins buried by time, but you seem different, somehow,” the specter sighed, its bronze eyes narrowing as it studied the Warrior.

“I’m Hydaelyn’s Chosen, her champion, blessed with her... well... Blessing,” he offered, at which the specter’s jaw dropped and its eyes widened. 

“H-Hydaelyn’s Chosen? Her Blessing?” it looked over at the apparent Well, voice speeding up as excitement filled those bronze irises. ” Then perhaps you might be able to...” 

“Do I touch it?” the Warrior asked, reaching out to the Well. 

His fingers, still a bruised blue/purple from the cold yet somehow capable of feeling, brushed against the rusted, coarse metal of the Source Well. It was cool under his touch, although the rust was almost slimy. Talk about a realistic dream! 

Was this even a dream? It had to be, right?

“Hmph, it appears I-” the specter’s disappointed sigh was cut off as the Well rattled and hummed, warming up under his flesh as power crackled. 

The belt began rotating, the darkness being punctured by glowing blue energy that flowed like the purest of water from the depths of the Well. 

“Impossible...” 

The Source felt like Hydaelyn: it gave off that same warm light and radiated power that he only felt in the presence of the Mother Crystal. He knelt at the cistern built into the base of the Well’s belt, where the blue pool glowed and shimmered in the darkness, and reached out to it. 

The Source responded to his presence: it wrapped around his fingers as he dipped it into the warmth, his hair standing up on end at the pure power that flooded into his body. 

“By the divines, you’re actually able to reawaken the Source Wells!” the specter gasped, drawing his eyes back to it. “Then, that means...” 

Hope gleamed in the specter’s bronze eyes, as did the flames of a long-dormant ambition. “You can revive a power that this world has forgotten for eons. With your strength, you would be capable of remaking my Clockworks and bringing this world to its knees.” 

Bring the world to its knees? Hadn’t he sworn to protect it? To protect Eorzea? 

Pain flared over his body, faces once smiling with joy and friendship twisting into savage hatred. 

Savages. All of them. 

Eorzea, Othard, Thavnair, Garlemald. All of them.

This wasn’t a dream, was it?

It was all real.

“What did your king do to you?” he found himself asking. “Who were you?” 

“I am called Agonius,” the specter answered. “Once, I took the name of Lord Agony as I led my children against the kingdom that betrayed me. I was a fool, trying to make life where Source couldn’t, but I did create a clockwork so human that all it needed was a soul.” 

Agonius gazed over his shoulder at the ruins, staring far off into the distance. “My son... Lock... I gave his clockwork body my soul so that he might have true life, but even I didn’t know that souls cannot transform metal into flesh; cogs into organs. He was a hunk of metal with my soul trapped inside of it, giving him a false life that I never wanted him to suffer through.” 

“He remained the same long after the war ended, living with his beloved sister, Emi, even as his human friends grew old and died,” Agonius continued, rising and starting to float in the direction he was staring. “Lock and Emi... the most human clockworks to ever exist... my children... yet they couldn’t escape their fates when the Source Wells dried up and the kingdom collapsed around them.” 

“When Hydaelyn withdrew her power with the Source, she killed them,” he realized, wincing as fresh waves of agony poured into his body. 

Agonius nodded. “I was finally freed from my prison, but at the cost of my greatest creation.”

More pain flared, making the Warrior stumble as the world spun and burned. 

“We must move quickly! If we reactivate the Great Well, then you should be able to cobble together a new body for yourself out of the remains of my Clockworks,” Agonius lifted both of them into the air once more, leading them away over the sea of wreckage. 

The Warrior’s vision swam as his mind drifted betwixt oblivion and lucidity, barely noticing when the sea of Clockwork remains fell behind. 

“Damn me for not paying attention to your condition!” Agonius hissed. “I should have done this sooner!”

Yeah, thanks for that monologue, pal.

The Warrior, fighting through the haze of pain and fading senses, forced his mind to focus on what this strange, millennia-old specter had revealed.

“Wait, you said Source dried out... so how did Allag build itself on your successes if there was no Source left?” 

Keep yourself occupied... don’t succumb to the urge to sleep!

“They found our notes, the remains of our kingdom, and copied what we had done with magic and technology,” Agonius answered, his red apparel flapping behind him like scarlet wings. “As I said: it was our successes with Source and the technology we adapted with it before it dried up that gave Allag the beginnings of its might.” 

The world cleared as the pain faded slightly, giving the Warrior a view that would have alarmed him had he not still been muddled with agony: he and Agonius were streaking over the vast cavern floor- how large was this damn place, anyway?! - towards what appeared to be the ruins of a great walled city. 

Stone walls drew closer and closer, turrets with cannons set upon them resting on towers in several key positions. 

“Antonia, city of beauty,” Agonius spat with a bitter voice. “We’re heading for Archineer Hall, in the center district. The rest of the city is split into four districts surrounding the Hall and the Great Well that it houses.” 

Typical: a source of power is discovered and a city is built around it. 

The two cruised through a gate hosting an open portcullis, the Warrior glancing up to see that the wood on the portcullis had rotted away to near nothing. 

Antonia: city of beauty. 

Yeah, not really. Empty homes and shops lay derelict and abandoned everywhere, wooden roofs eaten away long ago and broken windows still littering the cobblestone streets with shards of glass. Elegant fountains lay empty and silent, many overgrown with weeds and green with age. 

Agonius led them through the ruins, towards a once-grand cathedral building that lay in the dead center of Antonia, surrounded by more stone walls and four gates that led to the city’s other districts. It was a fortress within a fortress, judging by how sturdy the great hall was.

The entire city was one great fortress, in reality: more gates and walls awaited in the other districts, separating them, from what the Warrior could see before Agonius all but threw him into Archineer Hall. 

Great columns still held the somehow-intact ceiling in place, the statues of knights and other important figures staring down with powerful gazes from their niches in the walls. 

“I still loathe coming here, seeing how well this damn place has held up compared to the rest of the city,” Agonius snarled as the column-lined walls gave way to a dead courtyard surrounded by arches, an enormous fountain with dead machinery resting in the center. “Behold: the Great Well of Antonia.” 

Fantastic. Why was the world spinning again? The Warrior found himself giggling a bit at how absurd that was, wondering if this was mania from losing so much blood. 

Yup, he was slowly slipping away. Help. 

Agonius dragged him over to the Great Well, at least three times larger than the other Source Well they’d been to, and slammed his hand onto the cool metal surface. 

Immense waves of energy surged from the contact, the air shaking with the sheer force of the awakening Well as a river of blue Source poured from the main contraption and began to fill the cistern. 

Hydaelyn’s power surged into the Warrior’s body, hot and cold at the same time and nearly overpowering with the sheer mass of what this Great Well contained within its ancient core. 

The Warrior all but collapsed onto the dead grass as strength left him, warm darkness battling the sheer light of Hydaelyn’s essence for supremacy inside of him. 

“To think this was what I had struggled to claim for so long, only to have it here at my fingertips when I can no longer use it,” Agonius muttered somewhere off to the side of the haze. “Wait here: I hope the hall they kept for my children is intact.” 

The Clockworks? Why would he need that? 

Source rippled around the hand still resting on the Well’s cistern, making his fingers tingle as the aetherial substance coagulated around his flesh, waiting for him to put it to use. He could feel the pure creative potential inside every drop of Hydaelyn’s essence: if he had the time, he could rebuild Antonia from the ground up! 

Metal clanked nearby, drawing his weary, blurry gaze to the pile of scrap forming at his side. 

“I can move physical objects, but cannot manipulate Source,” Agonius was muttering as he heaped more and more bronze scrap, gears, and cogs onto the growing pile. “Oh, what I wouldn’t give for a working body... There is so much I could teach you.” 

“What do you want me to do?” the haze was impossible to fight through any further, his body slowly grinding down into nothingness. 

“Take that Source, infuse it into this scrap and make yourself a new body!” Agonius barked in response. “You’re too damaged and I cannot repair you, so make yourself a new one!” 

Make a new body out of clockwork? Could he really do that? But, his soul... his very being... Couldn’t he just use this Source to repair his own body? 

“You can transfer your soul into your new body after it’s complete, like I did for my child, Lock,” Agonius’ tone softened, that invisible hand guiding the Warrior back towards the Well. “And Source doesn’t work on flesh and blood like aether does. We’ve tried, trust me.” 

Apparently he’d been wondering aloud.

He forced himself to focus on the Source calling to him, drawing upon the power of his benefactor until Light and warmth was all he could feel slithering through his veins. Blue heaps of Source, flickering like otherworldly flames, responded to his will and surged into the pile of scrap and iron skeletons.

“Envision a body of clockwork, with gears and cogs replacing muscle and tendons,” Agonius’ voice was softer, almost impossible to hear over the humming of Source. “Make it hollow; a receptacle for your soul, but filled with veins for Source and the Light that sustains you.” 

The Warrior obeyed, picturing a body of iron and bronze, willing the Source to yield to his will. The blue light intensified, pure creation flowing through his fingertips as it poured into the scrap. 

Metal moved in fingers of Source, creaking and snapping together as the scrap pile rose and shifted with veins of ghostly blue rippling through each piece. The scrap rose and snapped together, melting with the power of the Source until an iron suit rose before him, comprised of gleaming bronze and small veins of pulsing azure. 

“Here, take this as well,” Agonius placed his own scarlet hood and cape around the neck of the hollow head, frowning at the great gap where the face would have been. “Reach into your soul and push it into this shell, let it resonate with the Source animating it.” 

The Warrior obeyed, reaching into the link between the Source and his soul, their conjoined essence resonating with a gentle chime. 

“Remember who you are, remember the rage and the pain that drew you here,” Agonius’ voice began to fade as the world peeled away and separated, swirling into a cold darkness as warm flesh peeled away from him. 

He was free; free to move and glide through all of creation until the cold metal embraced him, the hollow receptacle becoming filled as Hydaelyn’s essence melded with his own, flowing and pulsing with Light. 

The darkness slowly began to blur with light as his soul settled into its new home, the Source swaddling him and easing the transition with gentle hands. 

“And now for the final touch,” Agonius murmured, voice almost too loud as it bounced around his head. 

The Warrior flinched as something attached itself to his ‘face’, metal snapping together and fully sealing the gap that had been there. He was home.

“Now, don’t move anything yet: let your soul settle into your new body,” Agonius advised in the lightening darkness. 

It felt as if his armor had melded onto his body, metal encasing everything even though the strange warmth of Source pulsed through artificial veins. The Warrior obeyed Agonius’ command, however, letting his soul fill every niche of its new clockwork cage as feeling began spreading through his metal body. 

It tingled, buzzing with pins and needles in the cold and the warmth and nearly making him lose his balance. 

“Okay, how do you feel?” Agonius’ voice entered the silence after what felt like an eternity of waiting. 

“Stable. Not dizzy or like pins and needles are puncturing everything.” 

He could even feel the rough fabric of the hood and cape on his head and back. 

“Can you feel the Source calling to you?” Agonius was standing next to the resonating supernova that could only be the Source Well, his presence a small blot against the brilliance of what was now giving him form. 

“I can,” the Warrior answered, his head clearing as Source pulsed through his metal veins. 

He could feel cogs and gears turning within his metal torso, his new heart pulsing with Source and pushing it through his body. It was definitely going to take some getting used to, but he had endured far worse in fighting the Primals. 

“Reach out to it, will it to bend to your desires,” Agonius intoned. “Follow what I say.”

He obeyed, picturing the mechanical being that Agonius was describing and pouring Source into the scrap pile at his side. Metal clinked and bent, yielding to his power, until the darkness came alive with the whirring of cogs and the rattling of armored limbs. 

“What is it that you want?” Agonius spoke and the noise of the automaton softened as if it had dampened itself. “What is your desire, Warrior of Light?” 

Visions flickered of all those who had betrayed him, all those who had thrown him into the void, and heated agony pulsed into his veins. 

They were going to pay. All of them. 

He would make them suffer for what they had done. They would know his pain. 

The Warrior of Light, who had been the one to fall into the ruins of an ancient kingdom, found a new purpose in this darkness. Light flared as the world flared to life before him, bathing the ruins in red before all the colors snapped back together into proper focus. 

Romulus nan Morius was as empty as the ravaged fleshy body now lying in an eternal sleep upon the dead brown grass, all three eyes empty and sightless. 

The metal body that remained awoke, focusing on the specter of Agonius as he grinned at the creation.

“What is your desire, Warrior of Light?” he repeated, bronze eyes the color of the animated armor standing at his side.

“Vengeance,” the rattle that escaped his throat was not his and yet it was. “Yet despite their sins and their ignorance, the Eorzeans must be saved from this endless cycle.” 

Perhaps Gaius van Baelsar had had the right of it: a man of power would be needed to free humanity from its own savagery. A new power to rise and quash all dissent. 

A new power that would require a new leader. A new name. 

The Warrior gazed upon his predecessor and the creation he had just given life to, meeting the glowing red eyes of the bronze Clockwork staring at him. 

“It appears as if you have found your purpose,” Agonius chuckled. “I believe I could grant you permission to use my moniker if you plan to lead my children to war once again.” 

“You have my thanks, Agonius. Might I count on your wisdom in guiding your children?” any military would need an advisor, of course. 

Agonius’ grin was predatory and vicious, his bronze eyes gleaming with ambition and hope. “I would be glad to give you it, Lord Agony.” 


	2. Clockwork Ambition

“Hey, how long has it been since that traitor brought half the mountain down?” two knights of House Haillenarte were standing guard at the great gates of the mighty Monument Tower, constructed to guard the way to the Fury’s Gaze, where priceless crystals slumbered in a beautiful azure cavern. 

“Almost a day, I’d think,” the second knight grunted, leaning on her halberd as she gazed over towards Boulder Downs, which had been reduced to mountains of fallen snow and rock. 

Monument Tower, thank the Fury, had been spared the destruction that had followed the avalanche, but parts of the river near the Aurum Vale had been buried. The Observatorium was blocked off for now, but at least Daniffen Pass was still open after some fervent overnight digging by knights and volunteers. 

“Isn’t there supposed to be a supply cart coming along shortly?” the first guard mused, idly tapping the hilt of his sword. 

The second nodded, the chain mail on her armor frigid against her underclothes. “They should arrive within the hour.”

The day was young, at least, but the grey skies yielded little sunlight. The halberd-wielding guard sighed; it was going to be another bitter day, wasn’t it?

At least the gates yielded some slight warmth from the hearth inside the tower’s base, providing a blessing against the frigid daggers of Coerthas. 

Metal clanged against stone in the distance, making both knights jump and ready their weapons. 

“T-that came from The Fury’s Gaze!” the sword-wielding guard stammered, rage making his voice tremble. “Who would dare defile those caves?!” 

“Maybe an adventurer who wasn’t aware of their significance?” 

There had been no such adventurer for a long time, certainly not today, and both knights were already dashing down the slushy mud path to the sacred caves, weapons at the ready as they fought to keep themselves from sliding. They stormed into the curving cave mouth and skidded to a halt inside the beautiful crystal cave, their misty breaths expelling from their lungs as they took in the reflections staring back at them. 

“By the Fury...” the second guard seethed, rage making her hands tremble at the blasphemous vandalism that awaited. 

A hole had been blasted in the cave wall, crystal shards littering the ground before the pure black that stared into the azure. 

“Who did this?!” the first knight demanded, his voice tight as he took in the destruction. “We have seen no one ever since the avalanche!” 

Metal clanked and rattled, making both knights spin back towards the entrance, shouts dying in their throats as icy terror filled their minds. 

Animated suits of bronze armor roughly six feet tall were emerging from their hiding places, scarlet eyes burning into the knights as they blocked off the only way out of the caves. Gears and cogs were rattling inside each of the automatons, their heads topped by stubby horns on either side like miniature dragons. 

“W-what are these things?” And how did they smash through the crystal walls?!

More rattling and clanking heralded the arrival of more of the creatures; the clockwork suits emerging from the hole that they’d tunneled into the cave. 

“We need to fight!” the second guard cried, though her courage wilted at the sight of the vicious claws curving each automaton’s powerfully built arms.  

“For the Fury! For Halone!” 

 

“Hey, where did the gate guards run off to?!” the absence had been noted by a rather irate knight who sighed and rubbed his temples. “I swear to Halone, if they think they can shirk their duties just because the path to-”

A scream split the air, the knight’s heart skipping several beats as he jumped and reached for his sword. Shouts and pounding feet followed from the tower as more knights poured out, eyes wide as they looked around. 

“What was that?!”

“Dragons?!” 

“Who screamed?!” 

Metal clicked and rattled in the distance, carried on the cruel wind that sent icy needles through all present, and the knights hurriedly formed ranks before the tower, rose-emblazoned shields locked.

“Sound the alarm!” 

“By the Fury...” awed oaths escaped the throats of the knights as bronze automata poured from the maw of The Fury’s Gaze, several bearing talons smeared with blood. 

“Garlean magitek?!” 

“Stand your ground!”

The machines tromped forward en masse, their powerful limbs plowing through mud and snow with ease as they made a beeline directly for the shield wall, ignoring the fact that there was a phalanx of spears leveled at their bodies. 

And then they stopped a mere ten feet away from the knights, scarlet eyes pulsing as the machines stared at their foes. 

“Enemies-Identified,” one of the machines spoke in a metallic imitation of human speech, a metal mouth opening in time to its words. “Initiate-Plan.” 

Plan? What plan? 

A loud twang echoed from behind, short bolts slamming into knights and dropping them like rocks. 

“They’re behind u-!” the knight’s shout devolved into a strangled cry as a razor-sharp chunk of stone slammed into his neck, piercing his chain mail and spraying blood from the grisly wound. 

Machines dressed in grey hoods and cloaks were emerging from behind the tower, loaded crossbows clutched in their hands. Accompanying them were machines wearing pointed mage hats and robes, two red diamond-shaped stones levitating by each mage’s head. 

More crossbows twanged and the mages gestured with their hands, the red diamonds flaring as shards of stone materialized in a burst of arcane light before streaking forward. 

The knights crumpled under the hail of projectiles, broken bodies collapsing to the blood-painted snow and mingling with the mud. 

“Barricade the doors!” the remaining knights inside the tower scrambled to heave the massive door bar into place as the rattling of the machines grew louder and louder, barely getting the heavy barricade in place as metal bodies slammed against the wood. 

“Sound the alarm!” 

The single-note moaning of a brass horn echoed from the upper ramparts, hopefully alerting reinforcements as the remaining House Haillenarte knights scrambled to throw everything they could muster down the winding stairs in an attempt to block the shuddering doors. 

“What are these things?!”

Crossbows twanged from the archer things, bolts skittering off of the stone of the tower or thudding into the occasional piece of wood while the other machines heaved against the doors and the increasing pile of furniture and spare weapons being thrown into the barricade. 

“Keep the doors shut!” 

One knight paused in her desperate heaving, forcing air into her aching lungs as icy panic ran rampant through her veins. She gazed at her comrades as they fought against the machines for supremacy over the gates, each impact causing the makeshift barricade to shudder and the knights to throw themselves back upon it as they were dislodged. 

“Sir, what do we do?” she called out to the captain of the guard, whose ashen face was tight as he shouted orders at any who would listen. 

Those wide eyes picked her out amongst the chaos, gleaming with the muted horror of a man who knew that he was going to die after watching his comrades be slaughtered before him.

“We hold out long enough for reinforcements, then maybe...” he paused mid-sentence as the pounding on the door stopped, filling the air with tension thicker than steel. 

Knights paused in their efforts as the footsteps of the machines rattled outside, metal clanking in tandem with the familiar whirring of gears and cogs now discernable through the din. 

“Breaking...it...down,” a deeper metallic voice filtered through the silence, following by the whine of gyrating metal. 

The doors heaved violently as a heavy object was slammed into them, knights shouting in alarm before piling the misplaced objects back into place. 

Another brutal slam, followed by the sound of cracking wood as splinters flew from the heavy oaken doors as they shuddered open once again. 

“Impossible!” The captain shouted. “Those doors are tempered to endure Dravanian assaults!” 

“These things aren’t Dravanian!” someone else shouted as another sickening impact threw the doors partially open.

“Make ready!” 

The Haillenarte knight clustered together with her allies, her hands trembling as she unsheathed her sword, icy sweat trickling down her face as the doors ground open once again under another impact. 

This time, peering through the gap opened by the massive gates, she could see more of those humanoid machines, these a bit bulkier than the claw-bearing ones and carrying massive iron sledgehammers. 

No wonder they were doing so much damage to the gates. 

One of the hammer-wielding machines pirouetted where it stood, the momentum of its spin slamming its weapon violently into the doors with an ear-splitting crack that rebuffed the knight’s attempts at throwing the gates shut. 

Crossbow bolts flew into the opening, most slamming harmlessly into furniture, although a few knights screamed in pain as the shafts slammed into their bodies. 

“Fighting retreat! Up the stairs!” The captain’s command echoed through the tower before it was lost amongst the clicking and whirring of the machines as a sea of bronze flooded through the gap. 

Those who had been thrown by the impact were the first to be opened up by the razor-sharp talons of the machines while the others backed up the stone stairs as those talons were then extended in their direction. Bolts slammed into metal or flesh as the grey-cloaked archers loosed their crossbows through the open gate, shouts and prayers filling the tower as more bodies tumbled to the ground. 

The Haillenarte knight found herself absorbed in the tight, sweaty press of metal-covered bodies as her comrades clustered together around her, shoving her around this way or that as the mob was pushed back. 

She had to lower her sword point to avoid stabbing the man in front of her, but the screams and cacophony of tearing metal told her that the machines were already in the process of shredding everyone in their path. 

One of the machines pitched off of the stairs, gears and pieces of scrap falling from the ragged tear that had been opened up in its side, and the knight could have sworn she saw some sort of blue flame flickering within the body before guttering out.

They’d been backed up to the second level, where knights with spears designed to punch through Dravanian hides were waiting. The moment the machines were in reach, those heavy steel heads were plunged downwards, impaling several of the machines and sending them careening back into the bronze horde now trampling the corpses left below. 

One metal body crashed into the hearth, dousing what little warmth remained as charred wood and embers scattered under the violent impact of stone on steel. 

A lancer pitched backwards, screaming as a bolt punched through his helmet. Then another followed suit as a jagged spear of stone sprouted from his throat. 

“Fall back! Fall back!” the captain was screaming through the chaos and the heaving bodies of flesh and metal, knights scrambling to get up the stairs as the hammer-wielding machines tromped towards the front lines. 

The knight ran alongside her comrades, daring to glance back at the debacle that was the front line. The talon-machines were swinging mechanically with strength that could never falter or tire, their vicious claws raking against shields and tearing ragged gashes in metal with ease even as their metal bodies sustained blow after blow from blade and lance alike. 

Her heart was beating in time to the ticking and whirring of the machines’ gears and cogs, she found as blood pounded her head during her retreat to the second level. 

Their numbers were dwindling too quickly: the machines would push them to the upper floor and then what? Push them over the edge? Butcher them where they stood? 

A grisly calm settled over the knight as she kept moving away from the slaughter, from the smell of blood, iron, and death that filled the air. Her armor faded away as if she was shedding the weight layer by layer until her body floated on the wind. 

More were running at her side as the line broke under the brutal machinations of the unstoppable hammers, stampeding up the stairs or throwing down their weapons in surrender. The machines didn’t grant any quarter: more bodies hit the floor, armed or otherwise. 

She was among the first to burst through the offices of the top floor and surge onwards to the uppermost ramparts, the frigid chill barely a tickle against her body as she moved around the massive ballista crowning the tower. 

Prayers would not find her lips as she peered over the ramparts at the earth far, far below, the bodies of the first group of knights mere specks against the white as more and more machines marched out of The Fury’s Gaze. 

Fear did not melt her senses as the machines around the cave mouth suddenly parted, the shouts, clangs, and ticking fading into the background as another figure emerged from the darkness. 

He was bronze, just like all the others, the scarlet eyes on his mask burning as crimson as the hood and the cape that shrouded his form. Terrible power resonated around him, his aura eating away at the knight’s will as she met that burning gaze. 

A bronze arm lifted from his side, a lone finger extending from his fist as the digit came to a halt in her direction. Clanking metal and screams echoed from behind and she turned slowly in the haze, her muscles liquidated within her body. 

The knights who had come up with her fell to the machines’ hammers and claws, yet she couldn’t make herself lift either sword or shield as the bronze monsters stomped towards her, their metal faces devoid of any human emotion as they closed in on their prey. 

She only watched as the closest machine raised its blood and gore-caked hammer high before bringing it down upon her. 

His Clockworks had performed beyond all expectations. As Agony watched that last Ishgardian’s skull erupt under the force of his Clockwork Knight’s hammer, nothing but satisfaction burned within his artificial heart and brain. 

“Now do you see the power my children command?” Agonius crowed at his side, pride and paternal affection filling his tone. 

It had been easy enough to send off the first Clockworks he’d created back to what Agonius called the ‘clockwork graveyard’ for scrap, using others to tear down turrets and long useless rubble from Antonia to build more of his own children. Source bent to his will and brought life to the scrap, the gears, and the cogs, Agonius’ guidance allowing him to perfectly recreate the Clockwork soldiers of the ancient days. 

Well, recreate without the flaws that the second Agony, a man named Jacob, had built into the Clockworks due to his reluctance for war coupling with his lack of knowledge, anyhow. These new Clockworks were perfect: capable of trekking impossible distances and fighting without cease, only stopping if they were destroyed or if he ordered them to. 

He couldn’t feel the cold, anymore, only the hot rage that pulsed within his breast. 

“What do you want us to do with the tower?” one of the Clockwork Mages asked, apparently having adapted the use of its voice quicker than its brethren. 

Agony gazed up at the mighty stone structure, debating using it for a supply base for his Clockworks even as the reminder of an entire ruined city beneath the earth lingered at the back of his mind. 

“Pack it with explosives and destroy it.” 

It would be one hell of a message to send to Ishgard. They would suffer for their sins, for their betrayal, first, then the rest of Eorzea would follow. 

‘‘Not utter destruction’’, part of his conscience needled in reminder. ‘’Crush their will to fight, make them feel the agony you have endured, then create a better order from the ashes.’’ 

Yes... that would be beautiful, would it not? 

“Well, now that you’ve seen what my children can do, perhaps now you’d want to return to a laboratory to continue creating more?” Agonius suggested. “You can make Clockworks of your own design, too, if you desire; the potential is limitless!” 

“Or improve on old designs,” Agony grunted. “You said that many of your Clockworks were designed to fight archineers, their walls and their traps. Since I am the only living archineer that we know of, perhaps I could make some tweaks to the Clockwork designs to better prepare them for conventional warfare?” 

Agonius nodded. “You aren’t wrong: you may have a need to mess with my own schematics to adapt, especially since we have the Great Well. We can create as many Clockworks as we desire so long as we have the materials, which are in no shortage, either.” 

Yes. He had a perfect army and access to vast resources to power his war machine. The agony that he had endured for years would spread to those who had forsaken him, break them and force them to their knees. 

Suffering and agony would spread, yes, but then a new banner would rise to put an end to the cycle of eikons and war. He would see to it that the world never had need of false gods ever again. 

They only needed him. 

Lord Agony turned his back on the beginnings of a new age, his Clockworks bowing their heads in reverence as he and his predecessor strode back into the inky black of the caves to return to Antonia. 


	3. Agony Rising

The still air of Coerthas, ripe with chilled daggers as usual, was shattered by the sounds of distant explosions. 

Haurchefant Greystone all but sprinted from his stuffy office as his soldiers shouted in alarm outside, the knights he’d been conferring with hot on his heels. 

“What was that?!” he demanded in the futile hope that someone had answers for him. 

“That came from Boulder Downs!” one of the sentries announced.

Another avalanche? No, that sounded more like physical explosions rather than cracking ice and snow. 

Rom... 

It mattered not that you were Garlean! You were a hero! A bright light for all the realm to rally to! Hope incarnate... My brother.

And now he was gone, murdered by the fearful Houses. Betrayed by the Alliance. 

Another explosion in the distance, followed by the faint sound of crumbling stone. Haurchefant gripped his sword’s cold hilt tightly, the mail covering his body sending shivers wherever it touched. 

“Is that the Monument Tower?!” Another soldier yelped, drawing fearful glances from the others. 

“By the Fury, I hope not!” 

More faint, echoing booms, then silence. Hopefully they wouldn’t trigger another avalanche. 

“Send a runner to Whitebrim!” Haurchefant barked at the closest knights. “I want to correspond with Lord Drillemont on sending a scouting party to the tower!” 

“Yes sir!” one knight immediately took off, dashing over the snow-covered wastes until he vanished amongst the trees

“You!” Haurchefant quickly singled out another scout, who stiffened and saluted, awaiting orders, “Go down to the Observatorium and alert them to a possible enemy threat in Boulder Downs. I doubt they missed the explosions, but I want to be certain!” 

“Aye, sir!” the knight took off like a man possessed. 

Who the hell would be setting of explosions by The Fury’s Gaze? 

As it was, Lord Drillemont of House Durendaire had already sent soldiers towards Daniffen Pass, the knights pushing through the recently excavated cavern in the heart of the mountains to a sight that made every man and woman present swear long and hard. 

Monument Tower had been mined at the base with explosives, making the rest of the structure collapse to the side. All that remained of the beautiful, sturdy tower was a massive gorge of stone and wood scattered upon the white wastes. The ballista was a hunk of slag metal steaming off to the side, bent and warped and shattered. 

The guardian of The Fury’s Gaze had been reduced to heaps of rubble as well as the corpses that could be seen upon the snow. 

“Who did this?!” the Durendaire party moved carefully towards the rubble, wary of potential enemies lying in wait for someone to investigate.

“Heretics?” one guessed the obvious answer as they looked around, examining the bodies. 

“I don’t know.” 

“Hey, look at this!” 

All eyes went to the side, where one of the knights was rifling through the rubble before holding up a large, bent bronze gear. 

“Huh, that’s unusual,” another knight frowned. “I don’t think any part of the tower had gears in it, save for the ballista, but none of our works are bronze like that.” 

“And the ballista’s all the way over there,” the knight holding the gear gestured towards the hunk of metal that used to be a dragon-killer. 

“Hey, look at these footsteps!” a female knight called over in the direction of The Fury’s Gaze, drawing her companions closer. 

The snow had been trampled by a great number of feet, their owners clad in heavy armor judging by how deep the indentations were. 

“Maybe heretics and dragons?” one of the other knights was examining the bodies of Haillenarte’s garrison, frowning at the ragged tears marring several. 

One corpse had a short arrow, a bolt, protruding from its heart, while another had a spear of jagged stone thrust into its ruined throat. This had clearly been a coordinated assault. 

“We must check on The Fury’s Gaze!” another knight brought up the question that had been nagging at the backs of everyone’s minds. “If the heretics stole the crystals within...”

Almost as one, the company made their way through the rubble, which fell just flat of tumbling off the cliffs, several knights frowning at the trampled earth greeting them.

“Did... did the attackers come from the cave?” one knight puzzled. “I’m not seeing any tracks from anywhere else aside from ours.” 

“If they were aided by dragons, they could have flown in,” another reminded her, but even he sounded uncertain. 

“The tracks are far too heavy to be heretics,” a knight commented, his voice filled with curiosity and confusion. “None of them wear such heavy armor or use crossbows. And if dragons took part of the assault, why are we not seeing any tracks from them or any evidence? There are no scales, no signs of any claws or fire breath or anything draconic.” 

“Or blood from the heretics. If bodies were removed, we would see signs of that as well.” 

What in the name of Halone happened here?

The dozen or so knights carefully made their way to the cave of The Fury’s Gaze, hands tightly gripping weapons and heads on a constant swivel for threats. More snow and trampled mud awaited, but even that was scarcely a sign of what awaited. 

“You and you, stand guard out here in case someone’s waiting for us to enter before ambushing us!”

“Shields to the front! Stay alert and be ready to fall back at the first sign of contact!”

The knights coolly obeyed, falling into line with the lancers hanging at the back, ready to fight their way out if necessary. 

They pushed into the caves, metal clacking against stone and chain mail rattling with each step until the beautiful blue of the crystal walls opened up before them, as well as the terrible hole that had been smashed into one side. 

“By the Fury!” one yelped. 

“Who did this?!” 

“The crystals haven’t been taken,” another noted, turning their gazes up to the ceiling, where a massive, priceless crystal hung. “Someone smashed through this just to attack the tower and destroy it.” 

One knight examined the hole that had been crudely smashed into the cavern wall, peering into the yawning darkness that awaited. “Where does this even lead? I know the heretics have tunnels in Snowcloak, but this is too far away for them to utilize.” 

“Wait, aren’t some scholars insisting that there’s an entire kingdom buried far below Coerthas?” Another knight spoke up. “And that the heretics have carved tunnels going down to it?” 

“Don’t be a fool,” one of the shield-bearers scoffed. “There’s no kingdom buried under Coerthas! This is likely a tunnel made by the heretics to get into The Fury’s Gaze!” 

“If it was heretics, then why didn’t they take the crystals?” a lancer pointed out. “They had plenty of time to do so.” 

“Hey!” a call drew the gazes of the others back towards the entrance, where a knight was kneeling next to two corpses. “Look at these!”

The corpses had been ripped open by claws, that much was certain, but the wounds visible through the ripped metal and flesh and gore were far too clean and even to be Dravanian talons. 

“Metal claws?” one man guessed. “I know the heretics sometimes make those for dragons who’ve lost talons.” 

“I don’t think so,” another lancer lifted a bent piece of bronze scrap from the cavern floor. “I think this may be Garlean work, judging by the heavy footprints.” 

“Magitek?” 

“That’s what I’m thinking.” 

“But why would Garleans suddenly attack us?” one knight frowned, tapping his sword against the blue walls. “The Fourteenth Legion has been utterly destroyed and Baelsar’s Wall hasn’t done anything.” 

“I don’t know, but we need to send word back to Lord Drillemont.” 

“I’ll go,” one smaller man volunteered before hesitating, “Unless someone else wants to.” 

“Go ahead, but be careful.” 

“Right!” the man saluted and dashed out the cave, metal clanking until it faded in the distance. 

“Now, let’s set up a quick base camp and see what we can do about keeping an eye on this cave.” 

It was always cold, always. Even in his thick wool underclothes, the runner’s chain-mail froze his flesh as he pushed through Dannifen Pass. 

His stomach heaved, nausea plaguing every step as the picture of the ruined tower entered his mind once again. 

By Halone, why did this have to happen? First it was the Warrior of Light being killed by his countrymen’s hands, and now it was the Garlean Empire making a push into Ishgardian lands. 

They were all doomed, weren’t they? 

He left the pass behind, emerging from the throat of the mountain and re-entering the snow-kissed forests of Whitebrim. Just a little farther and he could sit back in Lord Drillemont’s keep, being warmed by the hearth with warm food in his stomach. 

The ground moved under his feet, making him freeze and hesitantly reach for his sword. 

“Was that my imagination?” he wondered, the far-off cry of a bird making him jump. “I’m just paranoid...” 

He stepped forward and froze again as the unmistakable feeling of a large form pushing through the earth under his feet sent tremors up his legs. 

“By the Fury!” he unsheathed his sword with a ring of metal on leather and thrust wildly downwards, plunging the gleaming blade into the ground. 

He hit nothing, but the thing that was moving through the ground definitely reacted to his attack; it shifted again and moved away, cautiously awaiting his next move. 

He needed to find a boulder, or a tree, or something that would let him get off the ground! 

Nodding, the knight inhaled deeply to settle his nerves and gathered his muscles to sprint like a madman towards Whitebrim. 

Then the ground before him erupted, filling the air with a ticking noise and the whirring of cogs and gears as snow and mud went flying. A hole had opened up before him, disgorging a creature that could only have emerged from a nightmare. 

It was a bronze, humanoid automaton with thick arms clearly designed for burrowing, judging by the spade-like ‘hands’ topping the limbs. It was hunched over, red eyes gleaming underneath a helmet-shaped head topped by stubby horns, with what appeared to be two small tanks attached to its back. 

“What in Halone’s name are you?!” the knight stumbled backwards, icy fear gripping his limbs as the creature examined him. 

It took a heavy step forward, metal foot stomping into the mud and leaving a deep impression that matched all the others back at the Monument Tower. 

“Stay back!” his mind was screaming for him to run, every nerve begging him to flee before the creature gutted him. 

“Target-Identified,” it rattled in a metallic voice. “Eliminating.” 

“No!” he swung desperately with all the strength he could muster, but the automaton stepped back to avoid the flailing strike. 

He swung once more, twice, but both times the creature simply ducked or sidestepped to avoid the gleaming steel. 

“W-what are you?!” his courage was flagging with every failed swing, his voice turning into a whimper as the creature lifted a heavy arm and batted aside his third strike with ease, the impact making his arm scream. 

“We-Are-Clockwork,” the machine responded in that strange, halting voice. “We-Serve-Lord-Agony.” 

“Lord Agony?” was all he got out before one of those spade hands plunged into his gut, making his torso explode with red-hot agony. 

A scream was ripped from his lips as the Clockwork yanked its bloody arm out, the man’s eyes widening through the screaming, burning suffering as his own intestines spilled out in a shower of red gore. 

“No... please...” 

A second impact slammed into his head and the world fell to black as Halone called to him. 

It was almost night when the report from Whitebrim came in: the runner that the first group House Durendaire knights had sent from the ruins of Monument Tower had been found just outside Daniffen Pass, cruelly gutted by some creature that had apparently jumped out of the earth in front of him. 

Haurchefant sighed and placed his face into his hands. “Was it one of the dragons?” 

“Not that we know of,” the scout reported, a grim look on her face. “Drillemont’s knights think that Garleans destroyed the tower, given the signs of magitek automata that are rampant over there.” 

“Garleans?” Haurchefant’s head snapped up. “But didn’t the Alliance all but destroy the Fourteenth Legion?” 

“That’s what we know, but someone blasted a hole into The Fury’s Gaze and loosed a small army from the depths,” the scout frowned. “An army comprised mostly of heavy automatons, if not solely.” 

“And of course this has to happen after Rom is killed...” Haurchefant sighed. 

The knights who had survived the avalanche had been adamant in stating that Rom had used the last of his strength to fire off his pistol before nearly dropping dead. One had claimed that the man had an arrow in his chest, while another claimed a giant had injured him further. 

Either way, the soldiers all agreed that there was absolutely no way the Warrior of Light could have survived the avalanche, given the severity of his wounds. He was already on death’s door when the mountain collapsed upon him, and there was no chance he would have survived. 

“Sir?” the scout spoke up in a tone that made it apparent she had been speaking his name repeatedly in hopes of getting his attention. 

“My apologies,” Haurchefant shook his heavy head and offered the woman a smile. “If that’s all, you’re dismissed. Get some rest and some food.” 

“Sir!” the woman saluted before walking away, disrupting the warmth of the office with the cold winds of the open door before closing it again. 

Alone, Haurchefant opened up one of his paper-cluttered drawers and gazed at the unsent letter that lay on top of the pile, Rom’s name etched upon it. 

“My brother... I’m so sorry I couldn’t protect you,” he whispered as his heart ached. “You’d done so much good, and for everyone to abandon you like that is unforgivable!”

He shut the drawer, unable to look upon his own failures any longer as his friend’s dead eyes stared at him from the beyond, accusing him. Hating him. 

“Halone strike me down,” Haurchefant whispered. 

And now they had apparent Garleans making a push into Ishgardian territory, slaughtering everyone who got in their way. 

The door opened again, admitting another tall knight with a grim expression upon his face. “Lord Haurchefant.” 

“Speak.” 

“One of our scouts just came forward with some... unnerving information, sir,” the knight shifted from foot to foot uncertainly. “Some sort of bronze... thing burst out of the ground near the Observatorium before vanishing back into the hole it had made. The scout described it as a metal man with powerfully built arms and with little horns on its head. He was adamant that it had glowing red eyes, too.” 

Haurchefant frowned. “A metal man? Clearly some sort of magitek, but I’ve never heard of the Garleans making a tunneling bronze automaton...” 

“I don’t think it was the Garleans, sir,” the knight hesitated as if he were afraid to speak. 

“What did you have in mind?” Haurchefant asked, resting his head upon his steepled hands. 

The knight swallowed nervously. “I know this may sound like heresy, sir, but have you heard anything about the scholars who believe that Ishgard is built upon the ruins of an ancient kingdom that existed at the beginnings of time, when Hydaelyn blessed the earliest humans with power far outstripping aether?” 

“I’ve heard of that, yes, but not much,” to be honest, Haurchefant had heard more unflattering things about that theory than most. 

“Well, there are stories from that kingdom that state that it waged war against bronze automatons called Clockworks, sir, created by a spurned mechanist by the name of Agonius. This metal man that the scout reported seeing matches some of the old records of Clockwork soldiers, sir.” 

Haurchefant frowned. “You’re suggesting that the collapse of the mountain somehow awakened some ancient Clockwork army buried malms and malms beneath Coerthas, and now that army is moving against Ishgard?” 

“I... do not know, sir, it’s just a coincidence that I felt I should share with you,” the knight was visibly uncomfortable with sharing this knowledge, not meeting his commander’s gaze and shifting his weight from foot to foot constantly. 

But damn, he might be correct. 

“Those who... killed Ro- the Warrior of Light- did report that the ground collapsed under him before they fled,” Haurchefant frowned as a theory emerged from the depths of his mind. “I remember him telling me that a person’s aether flares brightest before they die. If he fell into the ruins of the ancient kingdom as he died, then the influx of his extremely powerful aether could very well have stirred the ancient Clockworks.” 

The knight’s eyes widened. “And do you think that they march against us, thinking us to be that kingdom that they waged war on so long ago?” 

“I don’t know, but I aim to find out!” Haurchefant rose from his desk and moved around to the front. “Do you know any of those scholars you spoke of?”

The man nodded. 

“I need you to introduce me to some of them, as well as bring me everything you can get on this ancient kingdom and these Clockworks,” Haurchefant glanced back at the desk, where his unsent letter languished. “And do so quickly: the faster we get this information, the quicker we can deal with this new threat.”

The knight saluted. “Yes, sir!” 

Then he dashed out the door, letting the cold in before it sealed Haurchefant back inside the warmth. 

“By the Fury... I pray we are wrong about this...” he looked back at the desk again, allowing his gaze to linger. “Rom... we could really use you to aid us against these mechanical monstrosities...” 

But Rom was gone, leaving Ishgard to deal with this new Clockwork menace alongside the dragons. 


	4. Phantom Menace

“Fascinating,” Agony gazed at the Clockwork Magician standing before him, the opened panel on its side showing the rotating gears and cogs comprising the machine’s guts. 

Agonius yawned nearby. “What is? The same parts you’ve been examining for hours?” 

“More so the fact that these magicians are capable of manipulating aether in order to cast spells despite the fact that the Source powering them has no sway over that,” Agony answered, closing the panel and nodding to the Clockwork. 

The machine replaced its robes and strode away, leaving the ancient office empty save for the two dead archineers. 

“That’s the aether at work as well as the aspected crystals hovering around their heads,” Agonius commented, his bronze eyes fixing upon the Agony. “So, you destroyed the Monument Tower and gave Ishgard quite the message. When the time comes, they’ll find themselves at the mercy of the Clockwork army.” 

Agony nodded grimly. “Indeed. The versatility of your children is astounding, to say the least. The Burrowers are one of the most intriguing, although I must admit I find it odd that your Fliers aren’t better armed. It would be best if there was some sort of laser weapon or aetherial-based cannon mounted upon them somewhere.” 

“If you believe you can bypass their power limitations, I don’t see why not,” Agonius shrugged, his bronze eyes glittering as he nodded to himself. “With your talent and power over Source and aether, that should be easily done.” 

Agony nodded. “Indeed. I’ll get to working on that: we’ll need the firepower if we’re going to take the fight to Ishgard.” 

To let bronze fill the skies, raining down death... ah, that would be a beautiful sight. 

But it would be foolish to embark on any campaign blind, with no knowledge of what else Ishgard could possibly throw at him. 

“If you get the Phantoms working along with the cloaking fields for specialized units, you will be able to send scouts anywhere you desire,” Agonius commented, reading the resurrected archineer far too easily for comfort to allow. 

“Specialized units?” Agony replied, raising an invisible eyebrow. 

Oh, if he had flesh and bone again! And hair. 

Oh well, metal and Source would have to do. 

“Project illusions upon the Clockworks, make them appear human,” Agonius drawled, lazily tapping spectral fingers upon the stone slab serving as a desk. “I believe you people call them ‘glamours’.” 

“I see,” Agony nodded, taking a moment to glance back around the ancient office. “So, we can send Clockworks into settlements, posing as humans.”

The rotted wood of a table and several chairs and bookshelves had been hauled out by Clockworks, replaced by a stone slab rolled in by two of the newer creations, these ones called Brutes. 

Two said Brutes were standing guard outside the office, their frames bulkier and broader than the regular soldiers. Their hands lacked talons like their brethren, but the Brutes were designed to punch through metal and stone with ease, so their great fists alone were lethal weapons. 

Two large pistons hummed and pumped on the metal generators upon their backs, spurting gouts of steam. 

According to Agonius, these Brutes were designed to draw power from the generators on their backs before steaming forward and slamming their heavily-armored bodies into whatever got into their ways. Walls and bodies alike were crushed under their power. 

An idea struck Agony, wicked satisfaction trickling through his artificial veins as he rose from the stone acting as a chair. 

“Idea?” Agonius asked, a wicked smile on his lips. 

“Indeed,” Agony chuckled. “How does one set about creating these Phantoms?” 

“My lord, you asked to meet me?” Haurchefant’s thoughts on the reports of fighting between the dragons and his knights were interrupted as a woman dressed in black scholarly robes strode into his office, her blue eyes sharp and keen and long silver hair framing her face. 

The cold, bitter winds of Coerthas were thankfully extinguished with the shutting door, letting the warmth of the hearth fill the room once again. 

“You know of this old kingdom buried beneath Coerthas?” Haurchefant asked, planting a smile upon his lips in an attempt to appear friendly. 

The scholar pursed her lips, placing her hands upon her hips as she studied him, gauging his purpose for asking. “I know of it, yes. Why have you called me here?” 

Straight to the point, eh? Good. 

Haurchefant nodded to a chair, willing her to sit, but she responded with a cool stare. “I presume you’ve heard of the destruction of Monument Tower?” 

“I have, as have all of Ishgard,” the scholar frowned. “It’s the talk of the streets.” 

“I’ll cut to the heart of the matter: I have reason to believe that the attack on Monument Tower was orchestrated not by Dravanians or heretics, but by Clockworks.” 

The scholar’s eyes widened, her mouth dropping into a near-perfect O before she recollected herself. 

“W-what reasons, my lord?” her voice scarcely hid a confused stammer. 

Haurchefant pushed a report from Lord Drillemont’s recon team towards her, which she snatched up and scanned with sharp, keen eyes. 

“A force of heavily armored automatons emerging from a tunnel carved into The Fury’s Gaze?” she frowned. “What makes you think these were Clockworks and not Garlean warmachina?” 

Haurchefant lifted up the second bit of proof he had: the bent bronze gear that the Durendaire team had sent his way. “None of our machinery has materials like this inside of it, and one of our head machinists has already confirmed that nothing we use is even remotely similar to this material.” 

The scholar’s surprisingly deft fingers snatched the gear from his hand, her eyes wide as she closely examined the metal. “You’re correct: this is not of Ishgardian make. It’s damaged, but these strange grooves on the inside... perhaps meant to funnel some sort of energy source through it?” 

“If this doesn’t provide some small smidgen of proof, then perhaps the reports of strange bronze men popping out of the ground before burrowing back under would help?” Haurchefant handed over another report, this one more detailed in its description of what could only be a Clockwork. 

His companion read it quickly, the color draining from her face. “By the Fury... these reports perfectly describe a Clockwork Burrower; the spaded arms, the tanks on its back...” 

Her eyes snapped back up to Haurchefant. “What could have awakened them after eons of inactivity?” 

“The Warrior of Light,” Haurchefant forced himself to use that bitter title, to disregard his brother’s true name. “He buried Boulder Downs under an avalanche and died as the ground caved in beneath him. A person’s aether shines at its most powerful upon their death, and someone as powerful as him would release a torrent of extremely potent aether.” 

“Aether which carried to the buried Antonia and stirred the Clockworks,” the scholar frowned, her face pale as she set down the gear and reports to lean trembling hands upon his desk. “By the Fury... this is indeed the worst-case scenario.” 

“I need to know everything you do about the Clockworks and how to get irrefutable proof that these are the enemies now emerging from beneath the earth,” Haurchefant steepled his hands and rested his chin upon his fingers, the metal gauntlets cold against his flesh.

The scholar nodded, grim determination gleaming in her blue eyes. “In that case, I am at your service, my lord. Priscilla of House Durendaire.” 

She curtsied, her face still pale and her hands still trembling. “I will tell you everything we know of the Clockworks and their master.” 

“Master?” Haurchefant frowned. 

Priscilla nodded. “Yes, my lord. The Clockworks didn’t just show up out of nowhere: they were created by a man looking to bring about new life into the world. His name was Agonius, and he was credited with being the greatest architect of the kingdom. However, the king got word of Agonius’ experiments and ordered him to halt. Agonius refused and was banished.

“Infuriated, Agonius used his newfound knowledge to create an army of mechanical beings: The Clockworks. He assumed the mantle of Lord Agony and waged war on his homeland, tearing it asunder until he was finally slain at Dark Ridge by a hero named Jacob.” 

Haurchefant nodded as the woman paused to collect her breath, collect her thoughts. “But something tells me the story doesn’t end there.” 

“You are correct,” Priscilla nodded. “Jacob, presumed dead by the entirety of the kingdom, emerged decades later at the head of a new Clockwork army, crowning himself the second Agony. He too waged war on his homeland, following in Agonius’ footsteps in his desire to create life and to build a new world order.” 

Haurchefant digested the information, a chill going up his spine as he waited for Priscilla to continue. 

“The reason behind Jacob’s change of heart is apparently a nearly human Clockwork that Agonius had built and showed to Jacob when he arrived to kill him. Jacob... changed after Agonius gave the Clockwork his soul in order to give it life, creating the first human Clockwork. That Clockwork, named Lock, lived in a village by Jacob’s side until the war swept them up into it. Lock campaigned with the kingdom against the Clockworks, ultimately defeating Jacob even after he learned that his caretaker was the new Agony,” Priscilla released a heavy exhale, rubbing her eyes with slender scholar’s fingers more suited to rifling through books. “And that’s all we know. Expeditions and miners have uncovered ancient books from a city called Antonia which was the kingdom’s greatest settlement, but that’s the only name we ever received regarding them. The kingdom itself and its ruler remain unnamed and we’ve never found anything regarding what happened to it or Lock after the second Clockwork war.” 

“But you’ve obtained plenty of information on the Clockworks, themselves?” Haurchefant studied the woman, frowning as her gaze became possessive and guarded. 

“We have, and my companions and I have taken great pains to ensure that we aren’t labeled heretics and have Temple knights storm our quarters to burn what precious little we have,” Priscilla folded her arms before her chest. “I came here because I’ve heard of your kindness and willingness to listen, unlike others. If you plan to find evidence that the Clockworks have returned, I would ask that you allow my comrades and I to aid you.” 

“It’s a deal, then,” Haurchefant nodded immediately. “I have no knowledge of these Clockworks, so anything you have to offer, no matter how small it may seem, will be invaluable.” 

Priscilla nodded, her expression softening. “In that case, we shall have to obtain concrete proof that these are truly Clockworks that we are dealing with before we make a case to the Holy See. If we can nip this problem in the bud while it’s still young, we may be able to avoid having to fight both the Clockworks and the Dravanians at the same time.” 

 That would be the worst case: Ishgard would fall apart if attacked on two fronts by two different enemies. She was barely holding her own against one. 

“My thoughts exactly,” Haurchefant rubbed his eyes. “If that happened, I don’t think we would survive. Pull up a chair; I have a feeling we’re going to be here for a while.” 

“He’s dead. Rom is dead,” Alphinaud slumped into the confines of the padded chair in Minfilia’s office in the Solar, the other Scions grim and silent around him. 

“Romulus nan Morius, aye,” Thancred scowled at the Antecedent’s desk, where Minfilia was seated with her face in her hands. 

She’d hardly spoken since Haurchefant’s messenger had come to Mor Dhona with the news of the Warrior of Light’s death.

Alphinaud exhaled, his heart heavy and leaden within his breast as he closed his eyes, allowing his mind to wander. 

He saw, clearly, the banquet in which Teledji Adeledji had brought Romulus in, declaring him an imperial spy and assassin after ripping off a patch of flesh-colored magitek on Rom’s forehead to reveal his third eye. Raubahn had attempted to execute Romulus right then and there, but the Garlean detonated some hidden smoke bomb, cut his bonds with a mechanical blade hidden in his sleeve, then teleported out. 

Alphinaud and the others had thought Rom was some sort of scholar-engineer, given his intelligence and knowledge of magitek, easily buying his story of growing up in Dalmasca and receiving an imperial education from his nation’s conquerors. 

At least that explained why Romulus had had to place magitek teleporters in the city-states to enable him to teleport from one place to the other. Alphinaud had thought it strange that the man could use some magic yet not teleport, but his Garlean heritage overwrote the Echo’s blessings in that regard, it would seem. 

But why would Hydaelyn choose an imperial agent to be her Warrior of Light? Romulus had fought the Fourteenth Legion, slaying van Baelsar himself, and had fought for years to protect Eorzea. Surely no spy would devote himself so wholly to the nation he was meant to betray!

“Damn it all!” Thancred spat, slamming his fist on one of the tables and making the wood groan in protest. “With the Warrior of Light dead, what are we to do?” 

“I don’t know,” Y’shtola sighed. “Honestly, I was stunned that the Alliance responded so violently to the revelation. We already have Cid on our side, do we not? Why would it be so difficult to accept that Romulus was another renegade Garlean who chose to stand with those the Empire oppresses?” 

“Because apparently he has a distant relation to the Imperial Royal Family,” Alphinaud bitterly repeated Teledji Adeledji’s words. “And that alone branded him for death.” 

How that greedy, gil-mongering merchant lord found out, he didn’t know, nor did he want to. 

“But to think that Ishgard drove him to death’s door... especially after he helped defend the city from that monstrous dragon,” Yda shook her head, her voice tight with barely contained rage. 

Papalymo sighed. “They were afraid, and fear can drive even the stoutest of hearts to do terrible things.” 

“What are we to do now?” Thancred wondered, footsteps from out in the Rising Stones turning the heads of all present.

“Is that Urianger?” Y’shtola asked as the doors to the Solar ground open, revealing the tall, masked Elezen as he strode in. 

“My friends, I am come as quickly as I could,” Urianger looked around at them, his expression tight. “Is what I have heard true? Has the Warrior of Light doth meet his end?” 

The weight in the air intensified as grim nods followed his question. 

“We don’t know what to do now,” Thancred spoke for everyone, his fist still on the desk he stood by. 

Something passed by Alphinaud: some cold object stirring the air by his side and making him leap upwards with an embarrassingly undignified yelp. 

“What the hells was that for?!” the other Scions leveled startled glares at him, hands on their weapons.

“Something just moved past me,” Alphinaud blurted out, his cheeks burning as he looked around at the Solar. 

“Odd: the doors aren’t closing,” Y’shtola frowned at the Solar’s great doors, which were indeed hanging open rather than shutting as normal. “I don’t hear or sense anything.” 

_“You Wouldn’t,”_

The mechanized whisper made all present jump, Thancred leaping towards Minfilia as if to protect her from the unseen intruders. 

“Who’s there?!” Yda was taking random swings at the air around her, nearly taking off Papalymo’s head. 

Cold fear filled Alphinaud’s senses, his brain screaming at him to run, to get out those open doors before whatever ghosts had infiltrated the Rising Stones dragged him screaming into the abyss. 

Bronze specters materialized throughout the room, lone red eyes gleaming murderously. They had no feet, levitating above the ground on ghostly bronze tails while their thick arms and heads flickered like flames. 

“What the hells are these things?!” Yda and Papalymo now stood back to back, staring down the ghosts surrounding them. 

“We mean you no harm, this time,” the space behind Minfilia was soon hosting a larger ghost, this one completely blood red compared to its kin’s bronze. “We merely wish to extend our thanks to you and yours.” 

“What are you talking about?!” Thancred snarled, imposing himself between woman and ghosts as well as he could. “And who are you?!” 

“I am Letus,” the red phantom’s voice was deeper than the others’, yet retained that eerie whisper. “So named by Lord Agony.” 

“Lord Agony?” Y’shtola’s voice was heavy with unspoken anger, barely noticeable through her forced calm. 

“He who has slept for eons, awaiting just the right Source to awaken,” Letus put some strange emphasis on Source. “And thanks to you Eorzeans, we have returned.” 

“What do we have to do with this?” Thancred demanded, steel in his voice and his hands. 

“Long have we slept in the bowels of the ancient earth, siphoning aether from the world above in order to awaken our Lord. Thanks to you Scions and your dealings with what you call Primals, we have finally gathered enough aether.” 

Bile stung Alphinaud’s throat, making him fight down a gag as the foul taste threatened to erupt from lips he struggled to keep from trembling as this pathetic, primal fear gripped him in its foul talons. 

“And what will your Lord Agony do now that he’s awakened?” Thancred asked. 

Letus looked around at the Solar and the Scions gathered, examining them, its soulless gaze piercing Alphinaud’s very core and making his body scream to flee. “That is up to him; I cannot speak for my Lord.” 

“But why warn us?” Y’shtola spoke up this time. “If you wanted to fight us, it would have been more prudent to just assassinate us while we couldn’t detect you, and this meeting allows us time to prepare and warn our allies.” 

“Perhaps, perhaps not,” Letus appeared to shrug his rippling shoulders. “My Lord commands and I obey. We are his faithful children.” 

Y’shtola was right: nothing about this made any sense. Unless these phantom things weren’t hostile and were revealing themselves and whatever else comprised their kind as a means of peace? 

“What are you?” Thancred asked, his defensive stance before Minfilia not budging in the slightest. 

Letus’ lone eye burned into the rogue, scarlet shining as if about to loose a blast of energy before a mechanized chuckle escaped it. “We are Clockwork. We are the future of this world.” 

Clockwork? 

“Take these words as you will,” Letus intoned. “Farewell, Scions of the Seventh Dawn.” 

At that, the scarlet ghost folded in on itself, spiraling into nothingness and vanishing. Its kindred did the same, the solar’s great doors grinding shut mere moments later. 

A heavy weight lifted from Alphinaud’s shoulders as the icy fear finally released him, his body sagging onto the cushions holding him. 

“By the Twelve, this is not good,” Y’shtola murmured. “We must send messengers to the Alliance at once!” 

“Agreed. Yda and I will personally request an audience with the Elder Seedseer,” Papalymo was still looking around while Yda randomly punched the air, perhaps expecting to hit a lingering ‘Clockwork’. 

Those things were definitely automatons, but Alphinaud had never seen any magitek of their style or makings before, especially the one called Letus. 

“They said they had been buried somewhere, siphoning aether from the surface,” he remembered, drawing the eyes of his companions. “If we can find whatever they used to get to the surface, we may be able to set up surveillance on these Clockworks.” 

“Assuming we can even figure out where they’re coming from,” Thancred growled. “If even a Miqo’te couldn’t detect those phantom things, then how are we to track them?” 

“When they appeared, I could feel the essence of Hydaelyn inside of them,” Minfilia spoke up. “It was... ancient and far more concentrated than I’ve ever felt.” 

“Truly?” Urianger frowned, his eyes indistinguishable from beneath his goggles. “I’ll look into our archives to see if they mention these Clockwork.” 

“In that case: we’ll be on our way to inform the Alliance,” Papalymo informed, holding a fist over his heart. “Let’s go, Yda!” 

“Right!” 

One by one, the Scions departed, Thancred the only one remaining with Minfilia and Alphinaud.

Alphinaud cleared his throat in a cough, his mind running through the possibilities all the while trying to fill the holes where Rom once rested. “I’ll inform my Braves to do the same and keep an eye out for more of the Clockworks.” 

With that, he turned and followed his comrades’ example, Hoary Boulder and Coultenet both wearing hard expressions as Y’shtola spoke to them. 

What exactly did these Clockwork mean for Eorzea, especially now that Rom was gone? Alphinaud sent a quiet prayer to Hydaelyn to protect them all. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Letus is the Roman god of death, the Greek equivalent being Thanatos.


End file.
